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<h3>XX</h3> On his second visit to London, James was more fortunate, for immediately he got inside his club he found an old friend, a man named Barker, late adjutant of his regiment. Barker had a great deal to tell James of mutual acquaintance, and the pair dined together, going afterwards to a music-hall. James felt in better spirits than for some time past, and his good humour carried him well into the following day. In the afternoon, while he was reading a paper, Barker came up to him. "I say, old chap," he said, "I quite forgot to tell you yesterday. You remember Mrs. Wallace, don't you—Pritchard, of that ilk? She's in town, and in a passion with you. She says she's written to you twice, and you've taken no notice." "Really? I thought nobody was in town now." "She is; I forget why. She told me a long story, but I didn't listen, as I knew it would be mostly fibs. She's probably up to some mischief. Let's go round to her place and have tea, shall we?" "I hardly think I can," replied James, reddening. "I've got an engagement at four." "Rot—come on! She's just as stunning as ever. By Gad, you should have seen her in her weeds!" "In her weeds! What the devil do you mean?" "Didn't you know? P. W. was bowled over at the beginning of the war—after Colenso, I think." "By God!—I didn't know. I never saw!" "Oh, well, I didn't know till I came home.... Let's stroll along, shall we? She's looking out for number two; but she wants money, so there's no danger for us!" James rose mechanically, and putting on his hat, accompanied Barker, all unwitting of the thunder-blow that his words had been.... Mrs. Wallace was at home. James went upstairs, forgetting everything but that the woman he loved was free—free! His heart beat so that he could scarcely breathe; he was afraid of betraying his agitation, and had to make a deliberate effort to contain himself. Mrs. Wallace gave a little cry of surprise on seeing James.... She had not changed. The black gown she wore, fashionable, but slightly fantastic, set off the dazzling olive clearness of her skin and the rich colour of her hair. James turned pale with the passion that consumed him; he could hardly speak. "You wretch!" she cried, her eyes sparkling, "I've written to you twice—once to congratulate you, and then to ask you to come and see me—and you took not the least notice." "Barker has just told me you wrote. I am so sorry." "Oh, well, I thought you might not receive the letters. I'll forgive you." She wore Indian anklets on her wrists and a barbaric chain about her neck, so that even in the London lodging-house she preserved a mysterious Oriental charm. In her movements there was a sinuous feline grace which was delightful, and yet rather terrifying. One fancied that she was not quite human, but some cruel animal turned into the likeness of a woman. Vague stories floated through the mind of Lamia, and the unhappy end of her lovers. The three of them began to talk, chattering of the old days in India, of the war. Mrs. Wallace bemoaned her fate in having to stay in town when all smart people had left. Barker told stories. James did not know how he joined in the flippant conversation; he wondered at his self-command in saying insignificant things, in laughing heartily, when his whole soul was in a turmoil. At length the adjutant went away, and James was left alone with Mrs. Wallace. "D'you wish me to go?" he asked. "You can turn me out if you do." "Oh, I should—without hesitation," she retorted, laughing; "but I'm bored to death, and I want you to amuse me." Strangely enough, James felt that the long absence had created no barrier between them. Thinking of Mrs. Wallace incessantly, sometimes against his will, sometimes with a fierce delight, holding with her imaginary conversations, he felt, on the contrary, that he knew her far more intimately than he had ever done. There seemed to be a link between them, as though something had passed which prevented them from ever again becoming strangers. James felt he had her confidence, and he was able to talk frankly as before, in his timidity, he had never ventured. He treated her with the loving friendliness with which he had been used to treat the imaginary creature of his dreams. "You haven't changed a bit," he said, looking at her. "Did you expect me to be haggard and wrinkled? I never let myself grow old. One only needs strength of mind to keep young indefinitely." "I'm surprised, because you're so exactly as I've thought of you." "Have you thought of me often?" The fire flashed to Jamie's eyes, and it was on his lips to break out passionately, telling her how he had lived constantly with her recollection, how she had been meat and drink to him, life, and breath, and soul; but he restrained himself. "Sometimes," he answered, smiling. Mrs. Wallace smiled, too. "I seem to remember that you vowed once to think of me always." "One vows all sorts of things." He hoped she could not hear the trembling in his voice. "You're very cool, friend Jim—and much less shy than you used to be. You were a perfect monster of bashfulness, and your conscience was a most alarming animal. It used to frighten me out of my wits; I hope you keep it now under lock and key, like the beasts in the Zoo." James was telling himself that it was folly to remain, that he must go at once and never return. The recollection of Mary came back to him, in the straw hat and the soiled serge dress, sitting in the dining-room with his father and mother; she had brought her knitting so as not to waste a minute; and while they talked of him, her needles clicked rapidly to and fro. Mrs. Wallace was lying in a long chair, coiled up in a serpentine, characteristic attitude; every movement wafted to him the oppressive perfume she wore; the smile on her lips, the caress of her eyes, were maddening. He loved her more even than he had imagined; his love was a fury, blind and destroying. He repeated to himself that he must fly, but the heaviness in his limbs chained him to her side; he had no will, no strength; he was a reed, bending to every word she spoke and to every look. Her fascination was not human, the calm, voluptuous look of her eyes was too cruel; and she was poised like a serpent about to spring. At last, however, James was obliged to take his leave. "I've stayed an unconscionable time." "Have you? I've not noticed it." Did she care for him? He took her hand to say good-bye, and the pressure sent the blood racing through his veins. He remembered vividly the passionate embrace of their last farewell. He thought then that he should never see her again, and it was Fate which had carried him to her feet. Oh, how he longed now to take her in his arms and to cover her soft mouth with his kisses! "What are you doing this evening?" she said. "Nothing." "Would you like to take me to the Carlton? You remember you promised." "Oh, that is good of you! Of course I should like it!" At last he could not hide the fire in his heart, and the simple words were said so vehemently that Mrs. Wallace looked up in surprise. She withdrew the hand which he was still holding. "Very well. You may fetch me at a quarter to eight." After taking Mrs. Wallace home, James paced the streets for an hour in a turmoil of wild excitement. They had dined at the Carlton expensively, as was her wish, and then, driving to the Empire, James had taken a box. Through the evening he had scarcely known how to maintain his calm, how to prevent himself from telling her all that was in his heart. After the misery he had gone through, he snatched at happiness with eager grasp, determined to enjoy to the full every single moment of it. He threw all scruples to the wind. He was sick and tired of holding himself in; he had checked himself too long, and now, at all hazards, must let himself go. Bridle and curb now were of no avail. He neither could nor would suppress his passion, though it devoured him like a raging fire. He thought his conscientiousness absurd. Why could he not, like other men, take the brief joy of life? Why could he not gather the roses without caring whether they would quickly fade? "Let me eat, drink, and be merry," he cried, "for to-morrow I die!" It was Wednesday, and on the Saturday he had promised to return to Little Primpton. But he put aside all thought of that, except as an incentive to make the most of his time. He had wrestled with temptation and been overcome, and he gloried in his defeat. He would make no further effort to stifle his love. His strength had finally deserted him, and he had no will to protect himself; he would give himself over entirely to his passion, and the future might bring what it would. "I'm a fool to torment myself!" he cried. "After all, what does anything matter but love?" Mrs. Wallace was engaged for the afternoon of the next day, but she had invited him to dine with her. "They feed you abominably at my place," she said, "but I'll do my best. And we shall be able to talk." Until then he would not live; and all sorts of wild, mad thoughts ran through his head. "Is there a greater fool on earth than the virtuous prig?" he muttered, savagely. He could not sleep, but tossed from side to side, thinking ever of the soft hands and the red lips that he so ardently wished to kiss. In the morning he sent to Half Moon Street a huge basket of flowers. "It was good of you," said Mrs. Wallace, when he arrived, pointing to the roses scattered through the room. She wore three in her hair, trailing behind one ear in an exotic, charming fashion. "It's only you who could think of wearing them like that." "Do they make me look very barbaric?" She was flattered by the admiration in his eyes. "You certainly have improved since I saw you last." "Now, shall we stay here or go somewhere?" she asked after dinner, when they were smoking cigarettes. "Let us stay here." Mrs. Wallace began talking the old nonsense which, in days past, had delighted James; it enchanted him to hear her say, in the tone of voice he knew so well, just those things which he had a thousand times repeated to himself. He looked at her with a happy smile, his eyes fixed upon her, taking in every movement. "I don't believe you're listening to a word I'm saying!" she cried at last. "Why don't you answer?" "Go on. I like to see you talk. It's long since I've had the chance." "You spoke yesterday as though you hadn't missed me much." "I didn't mean it. You knew I didn't mean it." She smiled mockingly. "I thought it doubtful. If it had been true, you could hardly have said anything so impolite." "I've thought of you always. That's why I feel I know you so much better now. I don't change. What I felt once, I feel always." "I wonder what you mean by that?" "I mean that I love you as passionately as when last I saw you. Oh, I love you ten times more!" "And the girl with the bun and the strenuous look? You were engaged when I knew you last." James was silent for a moment. "I'm going to be married to her on the 10th of October," he said finally, in an expressionless voice. "You don't say that as if you were wildly enthusiastic." "Why did you remind me?" cried James. "I was so happy. Oh, I hate her!" "Then why on earth are you marrying her?" "I can't help it; I must. You've brought it all back. How could you be so cruel! When I came back from the Cape, I broke the engagement off. I made her utterly miserable, and I took all the pleasure out of my poor father's life. I knew I'd done right; I knew that unless I loved her it was madness to marry; I felt even that it was unclean. Oh, you don't know how I've argued it all out with myself time after time! I was anxious to do right, and I felt such a cad. I can't escape from my bringing-up. You can't imagine what are the chains that bind us in England. We're wrapped from our infancy in the swaddling-clothes of prejudice, ignorance, and false ideas; and when we grow up, though we know they're all absurd and horrible, we can't escape from them; they've become part of our very flesh. Then I grew ill—I nearly died; and Mary nursed me devotedly. I don't know what came over me, I felt so ill and weak. I was grateful to her. The old self seized me again, and I was ashamed of what I'd done. I wanted to make them all happy. I asked her again to marry me, and she said she would. I thought I could love her, but I can't—I can't, God help me!" Jamie's passion was growing uncontrollable. He walked up and down the room, and then threw himself heavily on a chair. "Oh, I know it was weakness! I used to pride myself on my strength of mind, but I'm weak. I'm weaker than a woman. I'm a poor reed—vacillating, uncertain, purposeless. I don't know my own mind. I haven't the courage to act according to my convictions. I'm afraid to give pain. They all think I'm brave, but I'm simply a pitiful coward...." "I feel that Mary has entrapped me, and I hate her. I know she has good qualities—heaps of them—but I can't see them. I only know that the mere touch of her hand curdles my blood. She excites absolute physical repulsion in me; I can't help it. I know it's madness to marry her, but I can't do anything else. I daren't inflict a second time the humiliation and misery upon her, or the unhappiness upon my people." Mrs. Wallace now was serious. "And do you really care for anyone else?" He turned savagely upon her. "You know I do. You know I love you with all my heart and soul. You know I've loved you passionately from the first day I saw you. Didn't you feel, even when we were separated, that my love was inextinguishable? Didn't you feel it always with you? Oh, my dear, my dear, you must have known that death was too weak to touch my love! I tried to crush it, because neither you nor I was free. Your husband was my friend. I couldn't do anything blackguardly. I ran away from you. What a fool you must have thought me! And now I know that at last we were both free, I might have made you love me. I had my chance of happiness at last; what I'd longed for, cursing myself for treachery, had come to pass. But I never knew. In my weakness I surrendered my freedom. O God! what shall I do?" He hid his face in his hands and groaned with agony. Mrs. Wallace was silent for a while. "I don't know if it will be any consolation for you," she said at last; "you're sure to know sooner or later, and I may as well tell you now. I'm engaged to be married." "What!" cried James, springing up. "It's not true; it's not true!" "Why not? Of course it's true!" "You can't—oh, my dearest, be kind to me!" "Don't be silly, there's a good boy! You're going to be married yourself in a month, and you really can't expect me to remain single because you fancy you care for me. I shouldn't have told you, only I thought it would make things easier for you." "You never cared two straws for me! I knew that. You needn't throw it in my face." "After all, I was a married woman." "I wonder how much you minded when you heard your husband was lying dead on the veldt?" "My dear boy, he wasn't; he died of fever at Durban—quite comfortably, in a bed." "Were you sorry?" "Of course I was! He was extremely satisfactory—and not at all exacting." James did not know why he asked the questions; they came to his lips unbidden. He was sick at heart, angry, contemptuous. "I'm going to marry a Mr. Bryant—but, of course, not immediately," she went on, occupied with her own thoughts, and pleased to talk of them. "What is he?" "Nothing! He's a landed proprietor." She said this with a certain pride. James looked at her scornfully; his love all through had been mingled with contrary elements; and trying to subdue it, he had often insisted upon the woman's vulgarity, and lack of taste, and snobbishness. He thought bitterly now that the daughter of the Portuguese and of the riding-master had done very well for herself. "Really, I think you're awfully unreasonable," she said. "You might make yourself pleasant." "I can't," he said, gravely. "Let me go away. You don't know what I've felt for you. In my madness, I fancied that you must realise my love; I thought even that you might care for me a little in return." "You're quite the nicest boy I've ever known. I like you immensely." "But you like the landed proprietor better. You're very wise. He can marry you. Good-bye!" "I don't want you to think I'm horrid," she said, going up to him and taking his arm. It was an instinct with her to caress people and make them fond of her. "After all, it's not my fault." "Have I blamed you? I'm sorry; I had no right to." "What are you going to do?" "I don't know—I can always shoot myself if things get unendurable. Thank God, there's always that refuge!" "Oh, I hope you won't do anything silly!" "It would be unlike me," James murmured, grimly. "I'm so dreadfully prosaic and matter-of-fact. Good-bye!" Mrs. Wallace was really sorry for James, and she took his hand affectionately. She always thought it cost so little to be amiable. "We may never meet again," she said; "but we shall still be friends, Jim." "Are you going to say that you'll be a sister to me, as Mary told the curate?" "Won't you kiss me before you go?" James shook his head, not trusting himself to answer. The light in his life had all gone; the ray of sunshine was hidden; the heavy clouds had closed in, and all the rest was darkness. But he tried to smile at Mrs. Wallace as he touched her hand; he hardly dared look at her again, knowing from old experience how every incident and every detail of her person would rise tormentingly before his recollection. But at last he pulled himself together. "I'm sorry I've made a fool of myself," he said, quietly. "I hope you'll be very happy. Please forget all I've said to you. It was only nonsense. Good-bye! I'll send you a bit of my wedding-cake." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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